


Pills N Potions

by ms_scarlet



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, Drabble, Drinking, F is for Friendship, F/M, POV Annie, POV Rio (Good Girls), Prompt Fill, Recreational Drug Use, Swearing, Tumblr Prompt, bi!annie, bi!rio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23124172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_scarlet/pseuds/ms_scarlet
Summary: Drabbles and prompts
Relationships: Annie Marks & Rio, Beth Boland & Rhea, Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 48
Kudos: 310





	1. all the bridges you came over

**Author's Note:**

> Title is Nicki Minaj

Beth doesn’t know why she does it. The whole thing is just...insane. It’s insane, there’s no way around it. Especially now that all the cards are on the table.

But she still can’t stop herself from showing up on Rhea’s door, a bottle of bourbon in one hand and a bold red in the other. 

The look Rhea gives her when she opens the door could curdle milk, but she opened the door, so Beth’s counting it as a win. 

“You’re not even pretending anymore, huh?” She asks, nodding at the alcohol. 

“No, I came clean.”

Rhea’s eyebrows shoot up. “And you’re still breathing? Damn.”

Beth shrugs a little, not really sure what to say to that. She’s surprised too, but at the same time, there’s a part of her that’s not? It’s not that she doubted Rio would kill her, but when he’d told her he needed her alive, she’d realized a part of her had been waiting for them to get there. 

And that’s dangerous, she knows. She can’t- she can’t rely on that. 

“Can I come in?” She finally asks, shifting her weight a bit in the face of Rhea’s scathing stare. “I know I have no right to ask, I know it’s insane that I’m here, I just...I wanted- I wanted to say thank you.”

Rhea keeps staring, unimpressed. 

Beth sighs. “I also wanted to talk to you. You’re- you’re the only person I know who might...get it.”

At that, Rhea rolls her eyes and pushes open the door. “Yeah, I figured it was some shit like that.”

“Good thing you brought the hard stuff,” she says, heading back into the house, not waiting to see if Beth follows. “This is definitely a drinking conversation.”

Beth follows her into the house, surreptitiously looking around as they head into the kitchen, trying to absorb as many details as she can. In the two months they’d been friends, Rhea had been over to Beth’s house a few times but had never invited Beth over. 

It’s a beautiful house, cozy and cluttered with stuff but in a clean, organized way that reminds Beth of Rio’s loft, and it gives Beth a pang to think about the ways the two of them align. Beth’s house is always a mess, she can’t imagine maintaining any kind of coherent, intentional interior design aesthetic, not with her kids. Or her husband. Her life in general. 

Rhea pulls out some Ball jars while Beth sets the bottles on the kitchen island and slides onto a stool. Rhea eyes the wine but reaches for the bourbon. 

“So, what do you want to know?”

Beth blinks, after Rhea’s hesitance at the playground, she hadn’t expected her to open up that quickly.

“The faster I tell you what you want to know, the faster you’ll get out of here and leave me alone,” Rhea says, reading Beth’s surprise. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told him: I don’t want my kid or me anywhere near whatever mess the two of you are making.”

She slides a jar to Beth and takes a deep drink from her own. “That said, you shoot the father of my kid again? I’ll kill you myself.”

Beth’s breath gusts out of her, and she reaches for her own glass. “So, you know that part, then?”

“Uh, yeah. I know that part.” Rhea scoffs. “I don’t know the specifics of whatever  _ business _ you’re in, and I don’t want to know, but the parts that are relevant to me and mine? Chris keeps me in the loop.”

_ Chris. _ Beth knocks back about half of her drink in one go. She’s not sure what hits her harder: the name or the idea that Rio is capable of keeping people in any kind of a loop, he just chose not to with her.

“So, you two- You have…” God, this is hard. Beth doesn’t even know what she wants to ask. She never should’ve come here. “You have a pretty good relationship, then?”

Rhea laughs, and it’s not a nice sound. “I’m not your fuckin’ competition if that’s what you’re asking.”

Beth can feel herself flush from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. That’s not what she was asking. It’s  _ not. _

But that doesn’t mean she isn’t filing the information away.

Oh god, this was the worst idea.

They both sip in silence for a minute, Rhea staring Beth down and Beth getting deeply acquainted with the countertop. She’s pretty sure it’s granite. 

_ Citrus damage. _

“How’s Marcus?” Beth asks, trying to find her way back to safer ground.

“Nope, off the table.” Rhea’s face is stone.

“I’m sorry, okay?” The words burst out of Beth before she can stop them. “I’m sorry for lying to you, I’m sorry for asking you for help. I didn’t- I didn’t mean anything bad by it, I just…”

She struggles to swallow around the lump in her throat.

“And I’m...I’m sorry I- I shot him. That night...it wasn’t supposed to be like that. I didn’t want that. Things were...things went all the way out of control. I would take it back if I could.”

The last part comes out a whisper, and Beth steels herself to look up at Rhea with a fortifying gulp of bourbon. 

Her face is still hard but maybe slightly less than before. Then Rhea sighs, and it’s like she’s a full inch shorter when she’s done.

“Yeah, well, things have a habit of going all the way out of control around Chris.” She takes a sip of her drink. “It’s part of why I took Marcus and left.”

Beth raises her eyebrows, surprised by the personal information freely given.

Rhea points at her with the hand holding the glass. “Don’t get all puppy dog at me, I don’t forgive you for shit. I’m just sayin’ maybe I get how it happened, okay?”

Beth nods, and they sip in silence again, but this time it feels a little less heavy, and Beth’s so grateful to have fixed things even that much, she can feel tears prickling in the corners of her eyes. 

“A word of advice?” Beth’s eyes fly to Rhea’s, and she’s watching her with a complicated expression on her face. There’s definitely still some anger, more than a little pity, but maybe also some sympathy, and that last part is so much a balm to Beth’s mental well-being, it catches her off guard. 

She hadn’t realized how much she needed Rhea to forgive her. Not that Beth thinks she has, but if she can be sympathetic at all, then maybe there’s a way back from this.

It’s not even about Beth needing forgiveness or making it right, though it’s definitely partially the last bit. At the end of the day, she’d really liked Rhea. 

She was fun and funny and a great mom. Beth loved having Marcus around- Well, she would’ve loved having Marcus around if seeing him hadn’t been such a sucker-punch of grief and regret every single time. 

“Be straight with him,” Rhea says. “He’s a fuckin’ asshole, but he’ll never lie to you if you do him the same favor.”

“He lies to me all-” Indignation has the words out before Beth can really think them through, and she stops as soon as she realizes that’s actually not true at all. He withholds information, sure. He makes things sound like a joke, absolutely. But she can’t think of a single time he’s ever directly lied to her.

“Mmhmm,” Rhea nods as the realization spreads across Beth’s face. “If anything, he’s honest to a fault.”

She takes another sip, finishing off her drink. “That’s another reason I left him.”

Then she reaches across and grabs Beth’s nearly empty drink from her, finishing it and putting the jars in the sink. “Now get the fuck out of my house. My kid’ll be home soon, and he tells Chris everything, I don’t think either of us is ready for the fallout of that, yet.”

She’s not wrong, so Beth gathers up her bag and heads back towards the door, feeling about a hundred pounds lighter than she had on the way in.

Beth pauses on the front porch, turning back to Rhea.

“Thank you,” she says, trying to imbue the words with the weight of everything behind them.

“Yeah, yeah.” Rhea rolls her eyes and starts closing the door before she stops, thinking. Then she sighs. “Maybe I’ll give you a call next week or something, and if you’re still alive, we can start in on that red.”

Beth smiles, “I’d like that.”


	2. #highwhilebi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from anon: i totally agree with you about annie and rio being bi, so i thought if you wanted to, maybe you could write a fic about them talking about their common experience. i would love more sibling in law camaraderie! but i feel like the only way rio could truly be that vulnerable is if he were high. would love to read about them high together! thank you in advance! #highwhilebi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dedicating this to [nickmillerscaulk](https://nickmillerscaulk.tumblr.com/), the bestest of the best and a fellow Schitt's Creek aficionado. Please note, she has _not_ beta-ed this so all typos are my own.

“Where’s your sister?”

Rio straight up, like,  _ materializes _ in the kitchen, startling the  _ fuck _ out of Annie and making her drop the chip bowl she’s refilling. 

“Jesus,  _ fuck,” _ she says, scooping a handful of potato chips off the floor. Five-second rule, right? Besides, Beth keeps the floors clean enough to eat off of. Literally. “You should wear a bell.”

He doesn’t answer and for a second Annie thinks—hopes?—maybe he’s disappeared as silently as he appeared. But, when she looks up he’s still there, staring at her and the floor chips, clearly horrified. 

Feeling thoroughly judged, Annie belligerently pops a chip in her mouth, gratified when his look of horror intensifies.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, chewing noisily just to be obnoxious and tossing the rest of the handful in the trash. Yeah, fine, it’s gross. 

“Where’s your sister?” Rio asks again, ignoring her question. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Annie retorts, grabbing some salsa out of the fridge. 

She realizes that it’s probably unwise to taunt the crimelord in her sister’s kitchen, but it’s not like anyone would ever accuse her of being wise. Which is kind of annoying, actually, because she is in many ways, but it goes unappreciated. 

Besides, it’s not like he’s going to do anything to her. She likes to think it’s because in the past year since he and Beth have stopped actively trying to kill each other, Annie and Rio have become...not friends, but cordial enough that she hopes killing her would at least be awkward. 

Except, she’s not stupid. He runs a  _ gang  _ for Pete’s sake, awkwardness is not a barrier to him, you know, taking care of business. The real reason Annie’s relatively sure he isn’t going to do anything to her is Beth. Annie’s perfectly safe as long as he wants to keep doing whatever it is he’s doing with her sister. 

It gives her the shivers, honestly. She can’t believe Beth— _ Beth _ —is into it, him. The whole situation is so weird. 

Annie gathers up her snacks and supplies and heads back to the couch and TV, dumping it all on the ottoman Judith had sent over ages ago that’s still serving as a makeshift coffee table. Beth had finally started replacing her furniture—that Rio  _ stole _ . And that’s another thing, they have the  _ weirdest _ foreplay Annie’s ever seen, and that’s saying something given some of the people she’s hooked up with—but was doing it slowly. 

The couch was one of the first big pieces she’d bought before even a bed. Which is  _ another _ weird thing, actually, given that Beth’s finally getting some on the regular. You’d think she’d want someplace more comfortable than an air mattress to—

Annie sits bolt upright, feet flying off the ottoman, nearly upending the salsa and chip bowl. Oh god, is this their  _ sex couch _ ?

Her eyes fly to Rio, still hovering like an awkward lurker by the kitchen door, glaring like it’s somehow Annie’s fault that Beth’s not here. Which is rich, him holding anything against her, when she’s the one over here sitting on the sex couch. 

Oh, fuck it, she thinks, dropping back onto the cushions. It’s not the grossest thing she’s ever sat on by a mile. 

“I don’t know when she’ll be back, she ran out to help Ruby with some church play costume emergency,” Annie relents, fishing around for the remote. “I can tell her you came by, or you can hang out, whatever, just stop hovering. It’s creepy.”

She crows, triumphant when she retrieves the remote, but it ends in a squeak as he sits down on the other end of the couch. She’d invited him to stay because that’s what people  _ do _ , she didn’t think he’d take her up on it. 

But, okay, sure, he’s here. The scary-ass gang banger her sister’s boning until the cow’s come home is chillin’ with Annie on an ugly ass floral couch Beth picked up at the ReStore, thumbing through his phone like this is all perfectly fine and normal. 

Annie never wanted her life to be predictable, but this is a left turn she never saw coming. 

Shrugging to herself, Annie hits play and dips a chip into the salsa. Nothing left to do but lean into it, apparently. 

“M’watching Shitt’s Creek, by the way,” she says around a mouthful of salt and tomatoes, bizarrely satisfied when he looks over at her with a pained expression. “It’s about this family—”

“Yeah, I fuck with it,” he says, looking back at his phone as he casually upends Annie’s mental picture of him and what he’s into like it’s nothing. 

“You do not,” she says, crunching down on another chip for strength. 

“What?” His eyes flick over to her. “It’s good shit.”

“ _ I _ know that,” she says. “It just doesn’t seem like, you know.” She waves in his general vicinity. “Your thing.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, going back to his phone. “What’s that sayin’ ‘bout judgin’ books by their covers?”

Which, ouch. Annie doesn’t  _ judge _ . Okay, so she judges but not like  _ that. _ She knows better than anyone how deceiving appearances can be. 

She digs around in her purse for her bowl and her weed. The whole situation is way too surreal for sobriety without being called out for being shallow and judgmental by her sister’s crime husband. 

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything when she pulls out her pipe. Not until she packs it and pulls out her lighter. 

“You sure you should be doin’ that in here?” he asks, which is just— _ no. _

“Okay, first of all,” she starts, waving a hand in his face. “I don’t care what you guys get up to, you do not get to tell  _ me _ what to do in  _ my _ sister’s house. Ask Deansie how that worked out for him.”

He smirks a little, and Annie can’t help grinning back. What can she say? Deansie sucks ass, and she appreciates anyone who recognizes that. 

“Second,” she continues, calmer now. “He’s got the kids for the week, so there’s plenty of time for the smell to dissipate. I brought a candle.”

“Besides—” Now it’s her turn to smirk. “It’s not like there’s all that much furniture to absorb the smell.”

Rio laughs at that, bobbing his head in acknowledgment of her point, and Annie squirms a little, pleased at his approval and annoyed that she’s pleased. 

“Now shut up and let me watch my show.”

She hits the bowl a few times, loving the warm, loose feeling that spreads in her head. It’s too bad Beth won’t smoke with her, it’d do wonders for that stick in her ass. Though, who knows, maybe she likes the stick. Beth’s a total fucking mystery to her these days. 

Annie laughs a little to herself, and Rio looks over, curious. 

“Want some?” She asks, offering him the bowl and lighter. She isn’t expecting him to take her up on it. If nothing else, he seems more like a joints or blunts than glass kind of guy. But she is apparently entirely shit at predicting anything about him because he takes it from her and lights up, smooth and easy like he’s had plenty of practice. 

They smoke in silence for a bit, passing the bowl back and forth until it’s tapped, and Annie’s feeling pretty warm and fuzzy. She grabs the chips and salsa, moving them to the couch between them for easier reach before snuggling back into the cushions. She nudges the potato chip bowl at him, dipping one into the salsa and popping it in her mouth. 

“What?” She asks at the look he gives her. “It’s good. People act like you can only dip tortilla chips in salsa, but really they just lack vision.”

He shrugs and grabs a chip. The satisfied hum he lets out when he tries it makes Annie downright giddy after all of the shit Beth and Ruby give her over her weird condiment and food combos. 

“You know what else is good?” She asks, recognizing a kindred spirit and lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Syrup on potatoes.”

He dunks another chip and chews slowly as he considers her insight. 

“Yeah, I could see it,” he says after a long moment. 

“My man!” Annie shouts, throwing up a hand for a high five and nearly upending the snacks. 

He laughs, and for a second, Annie thinks he’s going to leave her hanging which, unsurprising but a little disappointing, she can’t lie. But then he raises a hand and taps it to hers. 

It’s probably the weed, but it feels like she won something and makes her absurdly happy. She turns back to the tv, smiling a little wider when she sees Rio pocket his phone and settle back out of the corner of her eye. 

They watch a few episodes mostly in companionable silence, sharing the chips and occasionally cracking up, and it’s...weirdly nice? Like hanging out with a friend which is a total mind fuck to be entirely honest. 

She doesn’t know if it’s the weed or the weird level of comfortable they’ve inexplicably achieved, but he must be feeling it too. It’s the only possible explanation for what happens next. 

“Gooood,” Annie groans, slouching down a little on the couch and pressing a throw pillow over her face.

“Hmmm?” Rio’s pretty boneless himself, the second rotation seems to have done the trick.

“I just, I can’t even look at them,” she says, waving a hand towards the screen where Ted and Alexis are having a moment. “It’s too much concentrated hotness.”

She flings the pillow away, realizing after she let go that she’d more or less thrown it straight at his head, but he lazily bats it down on his lap, so that’s fine then.

“You ever have that? That thing where someone is just like, too hot, and it ruins your life a little?” Not waiting for an answer, Annie studies the tv. “Alexis more than Ted for sure, but I would gladly bone down with either of them in a heartbeat. Fuck, I forgot how horny weed makes me.”

It’s like her brain catches up with her mouth all at once, and she freezes, replaying everything that’s just come out of her mouth.

“Okay, for the record, I know how that sounded, and I was  _ not _ hitting on you,” she says, staring straight ahead and blushing so hard it feels like her entire face is on fire. “I want to be  _ extremely _ clear on that.”

She hears this sort of wheezing sound and seriously wonders for a second if she just freaked out so hard she burst something. But when she darts a glance to the side, she sees Rio’s got a hand over his face, shoulders shaking, and she realizes the wheezing noise is him. Laughing at her.

Like, really laughing. Nearly helpless with it, honestly.

It’s so unexpected, so different from how she’s ever seen him, it snaps her all the way out of her embarrassment. She literally feels her jaw drop, which is something she always kind of thought only happened in like, tv shows. 

And he just keeps laughing, it’s like once he started, he can’t stop. After a minute, Annie shrugs and goes back to watching the show, helping herself to more chips and trying to remember if she’d seen any of those mini pizzas in the freezer. 

Eventually, Rio calms down, dropping his hand, and Annie glances over, attention caught by the movement, and he’s smiling at her kind of fond and shit, which is  _ weird _ but also weirdly nice? She feels like she could get used to him liking her. Maybe even like him back a little. He’s pretty chill when he’s not like, threatening people with guns and death and stuff.

He’s got good taste in tv, anyway. Snacks too.

“So, Ted and Alexis, huh?” he asks and,  _ right. _ What with the unexpected giggle fit she forgot she kind of came out to him. 

“Yeah, you know,” Annie gestures at the screen, a little apprehensive. It’s been so long since she’s explained her sexuality to anyone. She’s totally chill with it, but she forgot that squirmy little edge that comes with saying it out loud no matter how little she cares what the other person thinks of her. “I like the wine, not the label.”

But Rio just nods, like it’s a foregone conclusion. “Yeah, I figured that part, I meant that’s what does it for you?”

“I mean, not that it’s any of your business,” Annie says, electing to ignore the fact that she started this. “But yes—wait, what do you mean you  _ figured? _ ”

“The jumpsuits and shit,” he says, frowning like it’s obvious. 

Which like, yeah, she dresses to advertise sometimes, but the assumption gets under her skin. 

“That’s ridiculous,” she shoots back. “How would you like it if I just, you know, called you out for your gigantic bisexual nose piercing?”

He’s smiling at her again, that sort of fond, sort of amused, sort of I-know-something-that-you-don’t smile that’s really fucking obnoxious, to be honest. She absolutely zero percent understands Beth’s thing with him, he’s so—and then the other shoe drops.

“Oh my god, wait, you’re…?” Annie trails off, not wanting to assume a label.

“Yeah, I guess I—” Rio pauses and squints at her like he’s trying to decide something. “I like a few different types of wine.”

“No shit,” Annie breathes. “Does Beth know?”

Not that it would matter to Beth, obviously, Annie just really loves the idea of knowing something about her sister’s boyfr—no, fuck buddy? Please, like Beth would have anything that crass, she probably thinks of him as her  _ lover _ , the nerd—that Beth doesn’t. 

Rio just looks at her though, eyebrow raised and fine; apparently boundaries are still a thing. Or so he thinks, he doesn’t know how persistent she can be yet.

“Whatever,” she says, putting the chips and salsa back on the ottoman before turning full body towards him, tucking a foot up on the couch and plopping the remaining throw pillow in her lap to lean on. “So, do you feel me on Ted and Alexis? Who’s your type?”

He huffs a laugh, closing his eyes and scrubbing a hand over his face like he’s already regretting saying anything. 

“Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell meeeeee,” Annie whines, nudging him in the leg with her toe. “You might as well get it over with, I’m not going to stop.”

“I like—” Rio cracks an eye at her, looking her up and down, and Annie does her best to look trustworthy and supportive. “Patrick.”

Annie’s jaw drops,  _ again. _ “Darkhorse pick, man! I did  _ not _ see that coming.” 

His shoulders bunch up, and he starts to sit up, so Annie thumps him with the pillow until he settles back down. “No, no, it’s great, I love it.”

She stops, cocking her head and studying him. “That actually makes a bizarre amount of sense. He’s got that same bouncy, wholesome, fuck-with-my-people-and-I-will-end-you-but-politely vibe as my sister, now that I think about it.”

Rio frowns like that’s something he hadn’t considered before, and Annie’s absurdly pleased to have upended his mental equilibrium this time. 

“Damn, gang friend,” she says, grinning wide. “I think we’re having a moment. I will be honest, I did not see this coming.”

He laughs again, sort of reluctant like he doesn’t want to, but Annie can see a little bit of a genuine smile teasing around the edges of his mouth. 

“Admit it,” she says, poking him with her toe again. “You like me.”

He rolls his eyes, dropping his head on the back of the couch and looking at her. “Don’t push it, yeah?”

“Fine, fine,” she says, turning back to face the tv. “I’ll let it go  _ for now. _ ”

They watch in silence for a minute before Annie gets an idea and has to forcibly tamp down on her grin. She starts to hum a little under her breath, getting a little louder when she sees him look at her out of the corner of his eye.

“ _ You’re simply the best,” _ she sings, collapsing into giggles when he smacks her with the pillow she’d flung at him earlier.

  
  


***

“What the hell happened here?” 

Annie nearly kicks the plate of crumbs—the only evidence of the mini pizza feast she’d made them—off the ottoman as she startles awake to find Beth standing in front of the couch, hands on her hips. 

Her face is flickering as she tries to look stern but clearly wants to smile, and Annie realizes she’d passed out with her face against Rio’s shoulder and—oh god, she’d been drooling on it. 

She shoves off of him abruptly, wiping her chin and sticking her tongue out at him when he grins at her.

“Nothing,” Anie says, opening and closing her mouth like it will help clear the moss that’s grown all over it while she slept. “Just watching tv.”

“Oh yeah? You’re friends now?” Beth asks, failing to hide the hopeful lilt to her voice like they’ve given her a birthday present or some shit.

“Yeah, I mean, what can I say?” Annie glances at Rio with a shrug. “He’s better than all the rest.”

She cracks up all over again when he pushes her off the couch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can send me prompts on [tumblr](https://mego42.tumblr.com/).


	3. “I’ve missed this.” + “I still remember the way you taste.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dialogue prompt from [riosnecktattoo](https://riosnecktattoo.tumblr.com/): *waddles in* 19 & 44 for the dialogue prompts if u fancy 👀👀 *waddles out*
> 
> shout out to [medievalraven](https://medievalraven.tumblr.com/) for inspiring the use of #44 (taste), excellent mick's jacket related suggestions and generally being the best.

Rio doesn’t know how it happens, drinkin’ with Elizabeth. He’s never really known how it happened when they used to do it, it never seemed like her scene. If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t know how anything happened with her, really, but that’s an entirely other thing he doesn’t have the energy to get into right now. ****

The woman has a way of squirming herself into all of his nooks and crannies and filling him up, making it impossible for him to see or think about anything else. It’s fucking infuriating, beyond exhausting, and there are times he does not have it in him to deal with it, even in the privacy of his own head. Now’s one of those times and not thinking’s the only explanation he has for how she’d slid onto the barstool next to him with no warning, and he’d signaled for a round instead of kicking her out on her ass like he should’ve.

She’d looked tired, though, a little lonely around the edges in that way he’s never been entirely able to stay unaffected by, maybe that’s what did it. The thing about Elizabeth is she tries to pretend she’s this prim and proper, nice lady—a good fucking person, like hell there’s anything interesting to that at all, like that’s actually what she fucking wants—but if he pushes the right combination of buttons, her claws come out, and she bears her teeth, fierce and sharp and leonine. It’s fucking fascinating, addictive, a game he can’t stop playing even when he really wishes he could. 

It’s not fun though, when she’s so weary, looking like she’s got the weight of the whole world on her shoulders. It makes him feel some kind of way he has absolutely no fucking business feeling when she’s the one that can’t stop bringing one heap of shit after another on to herself. She fucking shot him—three times, no less—she’s lucky she’s still breathing, let alone back on payroll and washing his fucking money again.

But apparently, there isn’t an end to the fucking inexplicable things he’ll do around her because he bought her that fucking drink, and then another, and then another. Somewhere around there, the room had started to go fuzzy around the edges, and he’d lost count. He knows she’d ordered a round of shots not too long after and toasted her own aim, cackling like a fucking hyena or some shit.

He can’t remember the last time he’d let himself get anything close to drunk, he had far too much at stake, let alone drunk enough that the room spun. But here he is, barely able to keep his ass on a stool, which might have something to do with the fact that Elizabeth’s collapsed against him convulsing in a fit of giggles.

She’d told some dumbass convoluted joke or story or something or other—he hadn’t been able to follow it, she’d started giggling and skipping around pretty much immediately—working herself up into such a state she couldn’t hold herself up. When she’d fallen against him, he couldn’t help but catch her because what else was he going to do? Let her fall on the floor? She’d probably take him down with her, and he’d never hear the end of it.

“—and his jacket was so _tiny!_ ” She says, slapping a hand on his thigh.

Rio truly has no fucking clue what she’s on about, but she’s warm and round and pressed up against him, and _fuck_ she smells so goddamn good.

He still catches a whiff of her shampoo, or soap, or whatever from time to time. Not just when he’s close to her but unexpectedly; when he’s out somewhere. Someone’ll be walking around smelling just enough like her that it’ll hit him like a sack of bricks and he’s right back in that bathroom with his face buried in her neck, his hands full of her curves, surrounded by her and drowning in it.

“Who’s jacket?” he asks, trying to snap himself out of it, pretty sure the words come out distinct and separate. It occurs to him he should probably sit her back up, get some distance. He doesn’t move.

“Mine,” Mick says, leaning around Elizabeth, glaring like he’s been viciously betrayed.

Rio doesn’t know what the fuck he’d done to him to warrant a look like that. Aside from calling him for back up when they’d ordered the second round, and he’d still had the presence of mind to realize he was probably going to need it. Mick hadn’t made it over until they were most of the way through the third round, and at that point, Rio was mostly annoyed he’d called him in the first place. He’s a grown-ass man, he doesn’t need a fucking babysitter.

“It’s still tiny,” Elizabeth whispers to Rio, loud enough for half the bar to hear.

“Yeah, that’s the thing about jackets,” Rio tells her, adjusting his grip to balance them better. “They don’t really grow.”

That sets Elizabeth off again, giggling like that’s the funniest shit she’s ever heard in her life. It makes her bounce in a way that’s got Rio abruptly preoccupied with a few other things besides jackets and what Mick thinks of the whole situation. It doesn’t matter anyway, he’s the one in charge, Mick’ll think whatever he tells him to.

“Oh fuck yes, thanks, man,” Mick says to the bartender as he hands over the plate of wings Rio’d ordered as a peace offering.

“I still remember the way you taste,” he croons, dipping the wings into the sauce the kitchen’s trying out. As far as Rio can tell, it’s more or less glorified ranch dressing, but people are going fuckin’ nuts for it. Mick hadn’t shut up about it all week after they’d first demoed it.

“Is he talking to the wings?” Elizabeth says, twisting around to look up at him.

She’s somehow crawling even more into Rio’s lap, which doesn’t make sense for a whole variety of reasons, the least of which is the physics of two people trying to sit on one bar stool. Nothing for it but to brace himself against the bar and hold on to her a little bit tighter. For maybe the first time since he’s known her, Elizabeth shows him a little consideration and wraps her arms around him, doing her part to hold herself up.

“What?” Rio asks, completely losing track of what’s happening when he looks down at her and realizes he’s got a perfect view straight down her shirt.

“The wings,” Elizabeth says, wiggling to get more comfortable, shifting the neckline of her shirt around in the best way. “Is he talking to them?”

“What?” He has absolutely no idea what the fuck she’s talking about.

She goes quiet, and he tears his eyes away, looking up and meeting hers. They’re huge and blue, and her pupils are expanding, maybe from the dark of the bar, maybe because she’s enjoying all the wiggling just as much as he is. Her eyes dart back and forth between his, searching for something, and whatever it is, she must find it because she takes a deep breath, hiccuping a little halfway through, like she’s got something to say.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Elizabeth says, halfway to an actual whisper this time.

Rio distantly registers Mick making a disgusted noise, but it’s far away and doesn’t matter because when he nods, Elizabeth’s tongue darts out, wetting her lips and that little flash of pink is his whole world.

She leans in, bumping her nose against his cheekbone, draping her hair across his face as she gets her mouth as close as she can to his ear. It’s close enough that he can feel her lips, warm and soft, brushing along his jaw. He can’t stop himself from breathing deep and _fuck_.

If he thought he was drowning in the smell of her before, now it’s like he’s absorbed it through osmosis so deeply it’ll be coming off his own skin when she moves away.

“I’ve missed this,” she says, low and husky, and the way Rio’s arms tighten around her when her warm breath hits his skin is less a choice and more a reflex.

“Missed what, ma?” He asks, his own voice a rough murmur.

“This,” she says, more insistently, grinding down against his lap where he knows she can feel him hard as a fucking rock against her because there isn’t really a way to hide it with how they’re sitting. But then she also tightens her own grip on him and nuzzles her nose against the hinge of his jaw, the soft spot under his ear, so once again, he’s not exactly following her train of thought.

“We ain’t done this before,” Rio says, surprised by his own honestly. He starts to loosen his grip, shifting back to get some air, but she isn’t having it and clings harder.

“I know,” she says, so close all he can see is her eyes, soft in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever seen ‘em before. “But we could’ve.”

Before he can say anything to that—not that he has the faintest fucking idea what he would because what the _fuck_ is she on about, she’s the one who didn’t want anything to do with him—Mick swears loudly.

The two of them nearly tip off the stool, whipping around to see Mick waving his arm around, trying to shake off his jacket that Rio can see has split all along the shoulder seam. Elizabeth obviously clocks it at the same time because it sets her off all over again, nearly taking the both of them off of the stool with the force of her laughter.

Rio gestures to the bartender, signaling for another round for the three of them. It’s the least he can do, and he’s got the feeling he’s gonna need to get Mick a lot drunker if he wants him to ever let this go.


	4. I'm angry. But.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> general prompt from [foxmagpie](https://foxmagpie.tumblr.com/post/630080505209094144/i-want-to-read-a-fic-from-rios-pov-of-210-when) that I claimed as my own:
> 
> i want to read a fic from rio’s POV of 2.10 when annie reached out to him both because i think annie trying to arrange a business proposition would be hilarious but also because i suspect that rio thought beth was either orchestrating things or that it would be a way to get her back and i wanna get in his head about it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> confession, I have not rewatched 210 in ages so if I messed up some of the details tough titties I guess, my bad.

_ can we meet _

All in all, it's a pretty standard text. Rio could probably scroll through his phone and find at least 15 others at any given point. More if he didn't dump his phones every week or two. Even more if he didn't have Mick filtering most of the bullshit for him. 

But that's the thing, he does have Mick, which means when these kinds of texts make it all the way to him, he knows who they're from and what they want. The problem here is he doesn't know who the fuck this is or what they want or, most importantly, how the _fuck_ they got this number. 

And that last part especially is a big enough fuckin' problem that he shuts his laptop and scoops up his phone, swiping through to call and see who it is. 

"Hello?"

He doesn't immediately recognize the voice that picks up, though it pings something. He waits, still not saying anything, figurin' he'll either place it, or they'll give themselves away. It's fuckin' unbelievable the kind of shit people will say if he just keeps his mouth shut and waits 'em out. 

"Is this…" The voice trails off, and he's right on the cusp of placin' it, can feel a face bubbling to the surface when it continues in a whisper. "Gang friend?"

The fuckin' sister. 

Rio's mouth snaps shut so hard it sends a pang through his jaw, and he's pretty sure she heard his teeth click together over the phone. 

There are motherfuckers who would kill—hell, who  _ have  _ killed—for his number, and here's this suburban bopper callin' him up like she can summon him or some shit. Like she has the  _ right. _

And isn't that just like Elizabeth, makin' her sister call? After her pretty little fuckin' speech, that prim, butter wouldn't melt  _ it's over,  _ leavin' his cut on the goddamn nightstand like he was some kind of hired help. 

His phone case creaks, giving slightly under the force of his grip, and he forces himself to relax. He leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers on his desk, tryin' to figure out how he wants to play this. 

He's not about to pretend the victory isn't at least a little sweet underneath the bitter rage just thinking 'bout their stalemate brings to the surface. He fuckin' knew Elizabeth wasn't gonna walk away. She couldn't, she didn't have it in her. 

It isn't enough, though, knowing he was right. It's barely a dent, a scratch, a fuckin' scuff in the debt she owes him, the mountain of shit he's gonna make her pay for.

"Hello?"

He hasn't said anything yet, and it's makin' the sister antsy, he can tell. There's a static, scratching noise, and he realizes she's put her thumb over the speaker or something because he can hear what she says next, but it's muffled. 

"Are you  _ sure  _ this is the right number?"

Something in him bottoms out—he's not exactly tryin' too hard to identify what. The bright, bitter flair of satisfaction's gone as quickly as it came, leaving a dark, hollow space behind. 

The sister's actin' out then, going rogue. Elizabeth knows damn well what his number is. She hasn't exactly been too shy 'bout usin' it whenever she needs a payday loan. Or other services for that fuckin' matter. 

He can't help but laugh at that, but it's a harsh, biting sound. The audacity must be genetic. 

"Okay, now I know you're there. Stop being a dick."

He should hang the fuck up, now that he knows who it is. Hang up, block the number, forget all about that bitch and the sister. It's probably the smartest thing to do, all told. 

Except. Except she fuckin' owes him, and Rio hasn't gotten to the top by letting debts go unanswered. 

"What?" He asks, giving the t an edge sharp enough to cut. 

There's a pause. "What like you didn't hear me, or what like what do I want?"

Rio adjusts a potted bromeliad's alignment on the corner of his desk, running a finger along the edge of one of the tall, spikey leaves. Mick had dropped it on his desk one day with no fanfare, only snide commentary about Rio needing to take a vacation, and maybe this'll get him thinkin' 'bout it.

The annoying part is, it's not like the disrespectful fucker's wrong. Rio knows damn well he's let himself get far too twisted up in Elizabeth's bullshit. Offerin' to deal with her problems, lettin' her get away with all kinds of amateur hour bullshit like bringing her fuckin'  _ kids  _ on drops. He never should've let her strong-arm him into cuttin' her in. It's not like she's the first person to try, should've dealt with her like he would anyone else, string her up and don't give her the option to  _ not  _ tell him where his shit is. 

Hell, further back than that, he never should've followed her into that motherfuckin' bathroom. Should've kept it business, should've never found out how soft those miles of pale skin really are, how far that delicate pink flush can spread, how unexpectedly dark and rich she tastes.

Disgusted with himself, he shoves up out of his chair, pacing around the tiny, concrete floors of the control room currently serving as his office in long, loping strides.

He should take a week. Tie things up, take Marcus to Disneyland, or some shit. Get some fuckin' distance. Perspective. 

"Hello?"

Now the sister sounds like she's getting annoyed, and Rio's really gotta do somethin' about the two of them runnin' 'round actin' like he's someone they can get away with not takin' seriously. Like he's some sort of pet. Defanged. Declawed. Fuckin' neutered. 

"Get to the point."

"I mean, I kind of did in the message." 

Rio can hear some kind of groan or somethin' from the background. Probably the friend. She was the only one of the three of them who ever seemed to really get what kind of waters they were swimming in. How deep they were and what kind of monsters lurked beneath the surface.

"Yeah, that ain't really how we do things."

"I know, I...look—" He has to yank the phone away from his ear when she sighs, loud as shit, right into it. "Something...I mean, um. I know Beth quit, but, uh…"

He tunes her out, the way she's going, she'll be stutterin' her way around to her point about a half an hour from now. 

She wants a fuckin' favor, a hookup. They always do. Not just these bitches but everyone. Once you're at the top, all people want is a piece; it's only a matter of whether or not they're gonna beg for it or try to take it. Every now and then, they try to earn it. 

It’s one of the things he'd liked best about Elizabeth from the jump. Yeah, sure, she was arrogant as shit, struttin' 'round in those heels like she understood the rules the world played by. Like she could twist anything and everything' round her pretty little fingers and get away with whatever the fuck she wanted as long as she batted those big, blue eyes just right. 

But she was willin' to work for it. She might’ve expected to be awarded a piece just because she worked hard and that was the fair exchange for her effort. And isn’t that a trip? The idea of livin’ in a world where fair meant somethin’. Still, that didn’t mean she wasn’t gonna get down in the dirt and scrap for it. 

Her problem is—well, one of 'em,  _ he  _ doesn't even have enough warehouses to house 'em all—she looked out at her tidy little garden and thought that was the dirt. She didn't want to accept there's a whole other subterranean playing field underneath all of that. 

He'd seen it though, the thing with teeth and claws she had locked up inside her. It'd come out in flashes and splinters, peaking through the bars of the cage she kept it in, eyes flashing, tail lashing, and he couldn't help it, the urge to see what would happen if he pulled its tail. Let it loose. 

Rio stops pacing, coming to a halt in front of one of the huge paneled windows in the exterior wall of his office, leaning up against the edge and looking out. The panes are dingy, giving his view of the Michigan winter sky a bleak, barren cast. Not that it needed any more of one. This warehouse sits on the edge of a train yard, the miles of rust and concrete below reaching out towards the horizon. All grey and dirty red, broken up by the occasional patch of strangled grass or vibrant streaks of neon tags left behind to defiantly mark the artists’ passing. 

"...I guess what I'm saying is, you know, you still have options in this, um, market. If you catch my drift. I'm hoping that we can figure a way to continue this mutually beneficial arrangement…"

The sister's still going, so he ticks through his options. 

He'd have preferred Elizabeth came crawling back all on her own. That'd be ideal. He hadn't decided yet if he'd initially shut her out, make her work for reentry, and  _ then  _ make her pay, or go straight to the main event. It would've depended on the circumstances, what was most advantageous at the time. All good plans are flexible. He’s learned the hard way to always take contingencies into account. 

She would've, though. Come crawling back. It was only a matter of time. She's had a taste now, she'd let herself go just enough, she wasn’t gonna be able to pack herself back away in that soul-sucking suburban box of a house, of a  _ life.  _ Not for long.

Beyond that, there was the money. She might've thought she had enough, but four kids, three mortgages, and a moron with a talent for squandering every last thing he's given? That's a lot of financial upkeep. 

'Sides, even if she thought she was in the black, he was still keepin' tabs on all of them—it wasn't even personal, just good business, they were too new, too green, too unpredictable to go without the extra surveillance—and he knew that wasn’t the case across the board. Elizabeth might've been in an okay spot for now, but the sister and the friend sure as shit were not, and if there's one way to get Elizabeth to jump, it's come through her people. 

And on the off chance that all of that failed to come to fruition—always a possibility, she's stubborn as shit and not above gettin' into some kind of dumbass, fucked up mess to keep from backin' down—he's got his little landfill insurance policy tucked away on ice if he ever needs to really force her hand. 

"So, what do you say?" The sister‘s finally run out of steam.

Rio runs his tongue along the inside of his lower lip and tucks it in his cheek. 

Now that he’s really thinkin’ about it, this might actually be a better option than any of the ones already on the table. There's no way the sister and the friend are gonna pull some shit all the way off, not on their own. He knows how to read a room, it’s been the thing that’s kept him alive more than once, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt, the two of them aren’t half as effective on their own. They don't have Elizabeth's steely determination, her gift for spinning bullshit into gold. Not only that but there’s too much friction there. They need Elizabeth to grease their wheels. He can toss 'em some piddly shit that don't matter and let 'em get tangled up. Give 'em enough rope and all of that.

And hey, it's not like he came after her—them. If anything, he's tryin' to help. He’s givin’ them the same opportunity to earn some money, build their own side hustle. He's practically the good guy here.

The thought makes him laugh, this time like it's actually funny.

"Okay, well, thanks for that. You know, you don't have to be rude. I just thought—"

"Park. 2 pm."

"What? Oh! Seriously? Okay, great. Wow, that is... _ phew.  _ That is a load off, you don't even kno—"

Rio cuts her off, locking his phone and tucking it back in his pocket, then tapping his fist against the window. 

Three seagulls are down in the warehouse parking lot fighting over scraps of something. Even all the way up here, he can hear 'em cawing, screamin', tearin' into each other for the same piece of the pie. After a minute, one of ‘em rips whatever it is away from the other two, swallows it, and takes off. The others follow a beat behind, and he watches the three of ‘em fly directly overhead until the building obscures his view. 

Either Elizabeth'll come to him, or this will give him a new string to tug, somethin' he can use to yank her right back under his thumb. He'll get her right back where he wants her and then he'll— He'll—

Well. He'll just have to see. 

**Author's Note:**

> Send me a [prompt](https://mego42.tumblr.com/ask) and maybe I'll fill it!


End file.
